


option three

by Ceebee



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: daredevilkink, Face-Fucking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceebee/pseuds/Ceebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's hands have balled into fists, but still he doesn't move. "What are my other options?"</p><p>"There's just one left now," Matt hears the scraping of his desk chair being pushed back a couple of inches, legs dragging against the wooden floor. "Come here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	option three

Matt knows it's one of those rare mornings when he's managed to make it to work before Foggy and Karen before he even enters the building. There's no smell of freshly brewed coffee on the air and no familiar hum of voices; he can't hear Karen's laugh, or the sound Foggy's fingers make when they flick through files.

But there is a heartbeat. It thuds steadily just beyond the office door and Matt's trying to place it even as his own quickens and he presses down on the door handle. He realises the moment it opens - the moment he takes a breath and the scents of denim and leather hit him, mixed with a tang of sweat that he recognises.

He freezes in the doorway and feels his muscles collectively tighten, his body readying itself for the fight even while the voice in his head cracks in devastation. This isn't supposed to happen. Not _here_ , not where his friends come to work every day. The thought makes something curl into a ball inside him, hunched and painful.

So he says, "Get out."

And Vladimir replies, "No."

There's a beat. A second in which Matt makes the inevitable decision to fling himself across the room - to slam his fist into Vladimir's jaw. 

"You have more than one option," Vladimir says, and it takes Matt a moment to realise he hasn't moved. The decision was made but he still stands, a shadow at the back of the room. "You try to beat me and fail - then your friends come and find you, yes? You, lying on the floor with blood all around and then, I think a short while after, they join."

"I think that’s unlikely," Matt says. "Looking at the statistics."

"Ah," Vladimir is smiling. Matt can _taste_ it. "But then what? They find _me_ , and you standing with blood on your hands. I think you don't want your friends to see you this way, otherwise why do they not know that you are man in mask?"

Matt's hands have balled into fists, but still he doesn't move. "What are my other options?"

"There's just one left now," Matt hears the scraping of his desk chair being pushed back a couple of inches, legs dragging against the wooden floor. "Come here."

Panic flares in Matt's throat, brief and hot, before he forces it back and bites out, "Why?"

"Because you do not want your friends to find out that you are scum, no better than criminal."

It is said simply, like a fact, and it makes something ugly and cold expand in Matt's chest. He can feel himself choking on it.

"You're describing yourself, not me."

"Maybe," Vladimir's jacket makes a noise when he shrugs. "But it's them you'll have to convince. And I think they will be here soon...so, maybe you should _come here_."

Matt doesn't want to. God knows he doesn't want to, but he starts walking, even steps that carry him across the room. 

"That's it," Vladimir says, when Matt's close enough to feel the moisture from his breath, and it makes him feel sick; a physical lurch in his stomach. "Now, down."

And before Matt can process what's happening, there's a hand pressing on his shoulder and he's falling to his knees. They crack loudly against the floor and he can't help his shocked gasp, or the way his hands automatically fly out to steady himself, grasping the first surface they come into contact with. He lets go the second he realises that he's clutching at Vladimir's shins, and then he's being steered; manhandled into the cramped space beneath his own desk. He has to hunch over to fit but that only brings him closer to where Vladimir's legs are sprawled apart in a loose bracket that nonetheless engulfs him. All Matt can smell is _him_ and all he can feel is the damp heat that comes off him in smothering waves. 

"No," he says, but it comes out quieter than he means it to and a hand grabs his chin and tilts his face upwards. He tries to shake it off but nails dig in and hold him fast, pressing until it _hurts_.

"You are going to suck my dick," Vladimir says in a whisper that makes Matt shiver in one taut, painful wave. "And then I am going to leave before your friends find out what a whore you are."

Matt hears the soft twist of the button being undone on Vladimir's jeans and then the impatient _snick snick snick_ of his fly. He thinks he might be staring but can't quite tell - it's like his senses are shrinking back, in some futile attempt to protect him from what's about to happen. He feels disorientated; all he knows for certain is the hand on his face, which falters and drags as Vladimir adjusts his position.

By the time Vladimir takes out his cock, Matt's breaths are coming hard and fast through his nose and every other one is accompanied by a flinch that he can't keep in check. He doesn't open his mouth. He _won't_. This cannot happen to him.

But Vladimir's thumb is playing at its corner, coaxing like this is some sick parody of something they both _planned_. Then, he makes a soft noise that's half impatience, half mocking disappointment, and presses his nail into Matt's lower lip until he hears the skin puncture and feels blood trickle down towards his chin.

He jerks back, can’t stop himself, but Vladimir keeps him from getting away by snagging his fingers in Matt’s fringe and pulling. Pain bursts in speckles along his hairline, unexpected, and Matt topples until his forehead is pressed against Vladimir’s inner thigh. A plea starts to gather on his tongue before he can stop it and he tries to convince himself that it’s borne of strategy rather than desperation, but he can feel his own heart pounding in the rhythm of a liar’s. 

He’s almost thankful that Vladimir doesn’t give him time to actually say the words. He just _takes_ , fingers forcing themselves into Matt’s mouth and prising his teeth apart. 

“No biting,” Vladimir says. “Or I tell everyone who is the masked man that trashes this city.”

Matt thinks, _that wasn’t me_. Then, he lets his jaw go slack.

Vladimir presses in slowly and Matt finds himself trying not to breathe, not to taste, not to feel. But the weight of it is unmistakable and it fills his mouth entirely, nudging against the back of his throat and immediately making spit pool beneath his tongue and his eyes water. He fumbles for something to hold onto, before settling on digging his nails into his own palms. Vladimir doesn’t move except for his hands to touch briefly on either side of Matt’s head, skimming just above his ears.

“No need for these,” he says, lightly, as if taking something back out of the trolley at the supermarket, and lifts Matt’s glasses from his face.

It’s a small thing, and it rocks Matt to his core. He feels the cold tendrils of shock coiling in his chest and he clenches his eyes shut as heat rushes to his face and mottles his skin a mortified red. The noise he makes is aborted, halfway between a muffled grunt and a whine. 

He hears it when Vladimir tosses them across the room and knows that one of the lenses cracks in six different places. 

“You’re not going to let me see?” he touches one of Matt’s eyelid’s and Matt shakes his head jerkily, tugging hard on Vladimir’s cock as he does so. Vladimir hisses in pain and, before Matt can register what’s happened, he takes a fistful of Matt’s hair and sinks deep into his throat.

It hurts more than Matt had prepared himself for - the rough, back and forth slide feels like it’s bruising him from the inside out, and he’s gagging around it, choking and spluttering while Vladimir just picks up the pace. All the while he’s pulling hard at Matt’s hair, and with each thrust the realisation of what is actually happening sinks deeper and deeper. 

Matt thinks about the little girl whose father came to her at night. He thinks about the boy at the local high school who had been cornered behind the gym. He thinks about the woman with the strappy summer dress and the spiked punch.

He thinks about how there’s no man in a mask coming to save him, and he struggles, pounds the flats of his hands against Vladimir’s stomach, because he needs to take a breath, he needs, he needs…

Vladimir pulls back just far enough for Matt to heave in a few clawing gasps of air. His face is slick with gag-drawn tears that he can feel mixing with the blood and spit around his mouth, and he can’t help the first real sob. It’s dry and broken, like it comes from one of the wounded places in his throat, and he curls his hands limply on top of Vladimir’s knees in some kind of tired, pleading gesture. 

Vladimir hums softly and Matt feels a finger swipe thoughtfully through the mess smeared on his chin. “Perhaps this would be better for you if you pretend I am your friend - the one that you work with. You have sucked him off before?”

Matt can’t help the whimper that leaves him as he tries desperately to shake his head, to pull back, to say _no_ , because Foggy isn’t part of this, because what Matt _wants_ can’t get tainted by what’s happening right now. Because Foggy, and Karen and Claire, are the spots of blessed darkness in Matt’s fiery vision and he’s not going to let Vladimir take that away from him. 

Vladimir laughs and it sounds the way sandpaper feels against Matt’s skin. “I think the words you look for are ‘fuck you’, yes?”

 _Yes_ , Matt thinks, but he's too scared to even try and say it out loud, and that lights up a spark of shame that burns relentlessly through him.

Fingers run through the hair on the back of his head, lightly rubbing and scratching, almost a comfort. But his throat still flutters around the tip of Vladimir’s cock and his cheeks still sting from all the tear tracks leaving salt on his face, and so he’s just about prepared when Vladimir drags him closer again in a grip that suffocates. 

When Vladimir comes, he groans, low and harsh, and keeps his cock buried inside so Matt can’t even taste it when it goes down - doesn’t even have the opportunity to spit it back out. Then, just when Matt thinks he might die from wanting to breathe, he pulls out and moves out of the way so Matt can slump forwards with a gasp that feels so raw he swears he can taste traces of blood. 

He’s not sure how long it takes for Vladimir to do himself up, buttoning and zipping, patting himself down, but he knows when he reaches the office door.

And he has to ask because, despite everything, he knows this is the most important thing: “How did you find me?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Vladimir tells him. “All that matters is that I will be able to again.”

The door shuts quietly behind him when he leaves and the office simmers in the remaining silence. Matt knows that he’s shaking, hard enough that the chair he’s leaning on rattles, legs juddering against the floor. He does his best to steady himself and gets slowly to his feet, all at once noticing the dozen or so aches that have been clamouring for attention but receiving none, in his knees, his back, his neck.

He walks carefully across the room and then stoops to pick up his glasses.

Foggy and Karen will be there any minute, with breakfast bagels and take-out lattes. He’ll tell them he dropped them, and they’ll laugh. They'll probably promise to help him pick out new ones.

And that will be that.


End file.
